Ascention
by WeLonelyOldSouls
Summary: From the bottom, the top is a long way away. But, the light can be seen. And it is oh so sweet.


Prison is not a fun place. Nor should it be. Prison is for those whose crimes are not terrible enough to demand death, but must serve time. It isn't like the prisoners can't improve themselves or do anything. Most live almost regular lives, working and living in almost normal fashion. Few refuse to work however, and mope around for the duration of their stay. I find myself in neither position. I would like to work, to do anything. Anything at all would be better than this. I am in solitary. Solitary, for a seeker, means complete confinement to the ground. Solitary for a scientist, means code lockdown. Solitary for a scout/spy means complete and absolute lockdown. It has been theorized that after a certain amount of time away from sensory input a bot will go insane. So far, the theory has not been tested. However, with the directive, "Leave him to rot in prison" I believe I will be able to conclude if one's mind would crack. If there is anything left to report my findings, that is.

Eventually, my processor will cannibalize parts of me. Lines of code, once necessary, deleted forever. Code for heat input, or ocular input. Perhaps even vocalization or movement. Eventually, I will have nothing. They purged my restore point. This is all I am. However, I am not alone. Indeed, someone got something onto my system before they locked me in. a bug. His name is Wormtail, and he is a pest. His only directive is to cannibalize any positive thought or emotion. Watch.

I will get ou-

_Never. Trapped forever. _

See? It's almost cool how well coded he is. The saving grace is that he will only take what I actually find pleasure or hope in. This, being a memoir for them to pull fo0r my shattered spark, is beneath his notice. It is possible I could_-_. I mean, someone could_-_. There was a war brewing when I was placed here. Truthfully, I have to thank whoever planted him. By some trickery, I can use his outside link to gather news. It is slow, but functional. At some point I will br_-._ Either that or I will kill m_-._ It will_-._ One way or another.

A piece of news finally transfers down the small link I created. The final spindle attaches itself and resolves into a headline.

**Vos erupts into war: Murder most Foul: Princess dead**

Vos. Vos brings back memories. The Royal Quadrine, first of its kind. It was shock when the line split into fourths rather than thirds, but the runt proved its own and resisted integration. She survived first gestation, then the sparkling years. Finally, she was ready to step up and help lead. The year I_-. _Now she's dead. Shame burned through my system. It was after all, partially my fault. If I hadn't _-. _The murderers had to pay. It had to be vengeance. Justice **must** be served.

Slowly, slowly, as through thick mud something within me rose to the surface. It battled past the blocks I had upon me, overpowered Wormtail's censor.

Viril. Second Lieutenant, Third Company. SAIC. Guardian bond: Empty.

Something else strained to come forth, a piece of history, something that should have been remembered. Something important. It wasn't as strong however, and failed to pass the lockdown. It hovered on the other side of the partition, begging to be accessed. One part blurred on the dividing line. One part. A word. Straining my system, I pressed against the lock as well, throwing my might into accepting the data.

"As a…. swear… World will not…. them. The evils…. Find them. I swear on my spark and my honor, they are under_-." _ The guardian bond. The oath of service. Fragmented as it was, I recognized it. I swore to protect someone. Someone I failed. Violetnight. Something happened that got me a life sentence in prison. Now, she is dead. Something I did got her killed. Maybe it wasn't immediate, but had I been free, I could have stopped it. This could not stand. I am getting -_-._ Now.

In a sealed room, deep within an empty quadrant, forgotten to most bots, an optic onlined. The glow grew in strength and resolve, burning first crimson, then blue, then finally settling silver. It cracked violet, gold, green, bronze. The color shifted and burned between factions and classes, the protocols dictating station shifted and burned. Lines long left dormant reactivated. Factions thought to be lost suddenly reawakened then died again. All across Cybertron, records shifted and changed. Lights flicked on and then off. Alarms activated and then silenced. Scribes flew into actions, and rumor began to spread. Something was happening, something big. Finally, the optics settled into place. The second optic onlined, gears spinning into action, grinding from disuse. One burned sliver, righteous action and duty. The other glowed soft bronze, craftsmanship and discovery. They pair clicked off, energy spent. The journey that would span a universe or two had begun. Through fire and storm, strife and hardship, war and diplomacy, something was going to change. Something was going to do its duty, come oblivion or not.


End file.
